


I am a flightless bird, and there'll be no more after me

by Alana



Category: Dark Souls (Video Games), Dark Souls I
Genre: Gen, Misgendering, Self-Esteem Issues, but just because solaire doesnt know, but theres a lil bit of gay feels, lonely gwyndolin, not quite slash because gwyndolin is repressed as hell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-05
Updated: 2019-09-05
Packaged: 2020-10-10 14:04:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20529260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alana/pseuds/Alana
Summary: "Pardon me," the man standing in the doorway says, in a common tongue, "but this seems an unlikely spot for a nap, my friend. Are you well? Are you in any need of assistance?"Gwyndolin stares at him, speechless for a moment, for the man bears the symbol of his brother, splashed bold and bright on his tabard.





	I am a flightless bird, and there'll be no more after me

It was not often that Gwyndolin ventured from his self-imposed vigil. It was not that he preferred the silence and misery of sitting beside his father's empty tomb, holding the golden illusion of days past over Anor Londo, hanging a sun in its darkened sky for the daring few who ventured there-- for it was unforgivingly difficult, some days, when all he wished was to find a bed and curl up in it and cry the tears he'd held back for centuries.

It was that he wasn't sure he could ever start again if he stopped on a day of misery.

So it was that only on good days, days that seemed, perhaps, a little brighter than just his false sun would make them, did he venture into his city. Perhaps he was the one lonely god left in the land that was supposed to belong to them; perhaps his family had left, in one way or another, not even a corpse to bury of what they had once been. But the sun was warm, even knowing it to be fake, and he could stand on a balcony and look out over the golden spires.

It was peaceful. It was quiet. He could pretend, for a little while, that he was content, before burying himself once more beside his father's grave, watching hours and days slip away in the endless sunshine of his own creation, waiting for his blades to come offer him the tokens of their justice and waiting for undead to step before his illusory sister. (He does not visit the phantom he has wrought. Not since he first built her. It hurts too much, to look into that familiar face, and know it will never smile down at him again.) He could, perhaps, even sit on a bench, and rest his chin in his hand, and let his legs relax as he recovers from the long climb up stairs and past knights and through his silent, dusty palace.

Gwyndolin knows not when he falls asleep, only that, eventually, he's awaken by some noise behind him-- and he looks up into a darkened sky, his illusion broken by his slumber.

"Oh," he breathes to himself, gaze caught by the moon, and it's only a politely clearing throat that draws his attention away from the shining light in the blue twilight. Behind him, some stranger stands, and for a moment Gwyndolin is deeply offended-- _doth the man dare intrude on the Great Lord's tomb?_ But no, that is not where he fell into sleep, there is no trespass beyond the kind he has long allowed for those seeking his sister, and he shakes his head, clearing the cobwebs of sleep from the corners of his mind.

"Pardon me," the man standing in the doorway says, in a common tongue, "but this seems an unlikely spot for a nap, my friend. Are you well? Are you in any need of assistance?"

Gwyndolin stares at him, speechless for a moment, for the man bears the symbol of his brother, splashed bold and bright on his tabard.

The stranger shifts, twists at one steel-bright wristband, tips his head under his concealing helmet-- clearly waiting for an answer-- and after another moment to gather himself, Gwyndolin straightens his back, smoothes his robes, and says, voice cool and distant, "Thy concern is kind, but I am well enough, and thou needst not worry for me." Below him, his legs are curled close around each other, chilled without the brightness of the sun in the sky; doubtless that is why the human has not run screaming from his loathsome malformation.

"Oh, then perhaps," the man starts, and Gwyndolin cuts him off quite suddenly, asking, "Art thou a Warrior of Sunlight?" 

The human pauses before he chuckles, voice warm. "That I am! Though I am surprised you know of the covenant, miss. There are few enough adherents in these lands--unless you reach across to other worlds and times in search of jolly cooperation." He takes a couple steps forward, and Gwyndolin's shoulders stiffen at the proximity; the man seems not to notice, and steps closer still, until Gwyndolin must either tip his head back to look the man in the helmet, or look only at the symbol on his chest.

He chooses a third option, turning on the bench and looking, instead, at the moon.

"... Thou'rt hardly the first I have seen," he says, after a moment, "though it has been a long, long time since the symbol thou weareth was before me."

"My! Surely not that long?" The man laughs, and, without asking permission, sits on the bench beside Gwyndolin, startling a twitch from the god at the sudden closeness. They are facing opposite directions, Gwyndolin towards the moon and Solaire towards the open archway; is it caution from the man, not wanting to have both their backs against an approach? Or simply that he did not wish to circle or climb across? "Unless I miss my mark, you are not one of the ageless Undead-- you could hardly be more than a handful of years past twenty."

Gwyndolin glances at the stranger for a moment, gaze hidden by his crown, and though he knows he is owed more formality than this, that he is owed respect by humans and their dark-marked undead, he does not let the man know he is much, much, much older than twenty-something, nor that it is a god that is being so casually chatted with. His legs curl more tightly under his robes, instead, and he murmurs, "Thy mark is not entirely missed."

He is not of the Undead, that is certain enough.

"... what brings thee, Warrior of Sunlight, to Anor Londo?" he asks, drawing the conversation out despite... despite that he has spent centuries in vigil, only speaking to those whose hearts are dedicated to justice in his name, and then only through a wall of fog, keeping them distant. Because he is a god, and this is his duty, and he has never needed nor deserved more.

Despite his face being well-hidden, Gwyndolin can feel the undead man's face brighten in the way his posture changes, the way he turns more towards Gwyndolin, the golden strings of sunlight in the man's faith. "Why, to seek the Sun, of course," he says, and there is joy in his voice, but under that Gwyndolin hears a hint of something a little embarrassed, even ashamed. "It is my task, to seek out a sun to guide me, and I have been wandering Anor Londo for-- well, I think it has been some days, though this is the first night I've seen. How strange, that it comes now!" He laughs, softly, and asks in return, "And what brings you? You're the first friendly person I've seen besides the fire-keeper; all the other denizens that remain here seem to take exception to outsiders. You must be quite skilled, to have brought yourself up to this high balcony without taking injury!"

Gwyndolin demures, evasively, "I am somewhat skilled with a bow," and does not mention that the other denizens are all his own constructs, illusions of those who once lived here. "Do you claim yourself skilled, in turn, if you have climbed to these heights?"

"I would not wish to be so immodest," the man says, and strangely, Gwyndolin believes him and his earnest voice. "Fate, skill, or luck-- each takes help from the other two, and I cannot say which strength guided me here. Perhaps it was a little of each." He spreads his hands, and shrugs, with another one of his soft, warm laughs.

Despite the cold moonlight casting the world in chilly blue, Gwyndolin feels a little sun-lit in the face of that laugh, and he is certain that, knowing or not, this man is touched by his brother's blessings. Perhaps that is what has carried him up Anor Londo, treading where the prince of sunlight is forbidden...

"But please, enough about me! I'm certain your story is fascinating, too, miss," the man says, clearly trying to lead Gwyndolin to speak with him more openly; despite himself, Gwyndolin is led, and he hums, softly, folding his hands in his lap, looking up at the moon.

"... 'Tis a story that I doubt thou shalt find terribly interesting," Gwyndolin says, and the man gestures encouragingly beside him, makes a noise that seems to imply that his attention has never been less that rapt. "... I am-- charged with taking care of something for my family. For my father. Naught else, nor any more than that." He twists the ring around his finger, and glances aside, trying to read the helmed human's thoughts in the way he moves, but it is a mystery to him at the moment.

Without anything to pull him away from his words, he continues, voice softening word by word until it is barely more than a breath, "He was a great man, but I was the only one among his children who... who had nothing to keep me from leaving, or who had not already left. So it fell to me-- and I could not turn away from such duty..."

Solaire hums, and says, "I do think that is interesting! Though I've no doubt that's not the whole story-- ah, don't think I'll force you to tell what you don't wish to." He turns a little, and, lightly, pats Gwyndolin's hand, where it has separated from the other and twists in the fabric of his robe, unaccountably agitated.

Gwyndolin is slightly aware that the man says something else, and he is deeply, deeply aware that there is warm, calloused human skin against his own slender fingers, a touch-- the touch of someone warm and (somewhat) living-- unbidden, unasked for, un_needed_, but all the same, his thoughts stutter in surprise, his gaze falling to the point of contact, his fingers flexing under the gentle touch. 

The human's hands are strong and wide, so much like--

And warm as sunlight, so similar--

The touch pulls away, and Gwyndolin realizes that the man is trying to get his attention, voice growing concerned; it takes him a moment, but he draws in a shaking breath, shakes his head, lays his other hand over his trembling, touch-warmed fingers, and looks at the human beside him.

When was the last time he was touched? He feels like he should remember. Perhaps his sister, in farewell, before leaving him behind-- or maybe some nobody, a servant helping him dress some morning-- surely none since then. None have been close enough.

He doesn't need anything, he reminds himself, but his duty.

"-- not meant to give offense, or upset you," the man is babbling, agitated in concern.

"Thou canst calm thyself," Gwyndolin says, though even to his own ears his voice sounds strange, and his face feels as warm as his hand. "It has-- it has simply been-- thy touch is the first I have felt since beginning my duty, Warrior." It should have been an offense, to lay a hand on a god, even in kindness, but-- "Thou may be assured, no offense was taken. I was but... surprised."

The human sighs in genuine relief, and Gwyndolin curls his touched hand to his chest, wondering at the lingering warmth. Is it just that, through this man, he is touching a blessing of his long-absent brother? Or is there-- no, it must be the connection to his family, so long gone, so silently but dearly missed.

Silence falls over them for several long seconds, strange after the man's chattiness. Stranger still is that Gwyndolin is the one who breaks it.

"What is thy name, Warrior?"

"Ah! Did I forget to say--? Forgive me, I was quite distracted by your unlikely presence!" He laughs, a little more shakily than before, and says, "I am Solaire, of Astora."

Slowly, unfamiliarly, a smile tugs at the corner of Gwyndolin's mouth, for-- "Thy name is quite fateful," he murmurs, "if it came before thy covenant."

Another laugh comes from the man, surprised. "It was more likely chosen for my hair than my future, but it does seem apropos, doesn't it?" He gestures, palm up, to Gwyndolin. "And what is your name, miss?"

Somehow, Gwyndolin hadn't expected this, and his mouth opens to reply before he has a name to give the man-- for, now that he is asked, he realizes he does not wish for it to be his true name given. He, somehow, does not wish for Solaire to know it. He does not want Solaire to hear his father's name, first and foremost, before Gwyndolin's own.

After a pause much, much too long to be natural, he lies, uncertainly, "... Lin. Lynn. Thou mayest call me Lynn."

Solaire couldn't possibly _not_ know that this is a fabrication, but still he nods, and says, easily, unbothered, willing to accept it, "It is a pleasure to meet you, Lynn."

Gwyndolin does not need, nor want, nor particularly deserve the company of others, but his traitor mouth asks, softly, "Willst thou stay long in Anor Londo, Sir Solaire?"

"I am not certain," Solaire says, and Gwyndolin refuses to let his heart be disappointed. "I am not certain there is much else this birthplace of the gods can offer in my quest--"

"--Thou knoweth not Anor Londo's secrets," Gwyndolin cuts him off, and though he's nearly certain that's rude, the man only chuckles, unoffended, and waves for him to continue. "Perhaps there is more here for thee to see, if only thou hast a guide who knows all it hides." _Hmm,_ says the undead, and Gwyndolin adds, certainly not desperate to keep him close, "Even if not, I know where the hidden, unmarred histories of thy Covenant lay hidden, where the Lord of Sunlight did not touch them, and where thou might find miracles to reward thy faith."

None has ever known of those volumes, the scrolls and illustrations and stories that Gwyndolin stole from the archives and hid behind illusion in the room that was once his, in the hours after his father ordered his firstborn stricken from history. None were ever supposed to know of his disobedience to his father, in a moment of weak fondness for his treacherous brother.

He hopes they have not turned to dust in the long ages of Anor Londo's abandonment, for as far as he knows, he holds the last portraits of his brother in the world.

"Ah! Well, with such temptation, Lynn, I suppose I might stay a little while," Solaire says, cheery, and too kind to let Gwyndolin know that his manipulation is completely transparent, though Gwyndolin knows it well enough. "But I feel I ought to offer you something in return...?"

"Think naught of repayment," Gwyndolin says, and he offers a slight smile to the man. "It... it will be..." Not a pleasure, not a relief, to show this stranger around his home, surely not. Just... a way to pass the endless hours. A moment of companionship, fleeting though it may be, to hold him through the next thousand years beside his father's tomb. "... Thou need not think of repayment," he repeats, and twists his hands together, certain that a god should not be so at a loss for words.

Solaire laughs, stands, and offers his hand to Gwyndolin, asking, "Then shall we begin exploring these secrets?"

Gwyndolin swallows, lays his hand in Solaire's, and lets the man lift him to his feet, such as they are-- only afterwards, as they uncoil, stretch across the cool stones, wiggle free of their tangle and lift him taller even than the tall human, does he remember that they have been hidden from the man, in the shadows of the bench, in this moonlit twilight, in their chilly curl.

His heart shudders, and he waits, frozen for a second, for Solaire to react, to draw his weapon, to recoil in disgust. How could he have forgotten, even for a pleasant moment, how repulsive he is--?

But the man's fingers stay firm and warm around his wrist, and all the man says is a startled little "Oh!" as his helmet bows, slightly, observing the slender snakes as they stretch across the stones, before tilting back, the eyeslits aimed at Gwyndolin's face instead. "My, you're taller than I expected," Solaire says, and laughs, lightly, before asking, "Where shall we go first?"

**Author's Note:**

> will there be more of this? buddy ur guess is as good as mine
> 
> thank u 2 byrd, my precious and most wonderful fiance, for the years of dark souls geeking we have done together that culminated in this fanfic. this is for you, nerd. <3


End file.
